Gospel Story Finder

Miss Blake is concerned that everyone in my fourth-grade class has a good self-image. At first I wasn’t sure what she meant. I knew that your image is what you see in the mirror, but I decided that the image that she was talking about was the one that you see of yourself when you’re not looking into the mirror.
Last Thursday she said that we should all think of something good to say about ourselves. Now, that really took a bit of thinking on my part. I wish I could have said, “I like the way I look,” as Mary Lou did. That was all right for her, with her beautiful long blonde hair and her big blue eyes. But it would never do for me. Oh, my, no! My hair is too thin and my freckles are too thick and my nose is too short. That would never do for me.
Neither could I be like Wendy and say, “I like the way I do my schoolwork.” She almost always has the highest grades in class. Not me. I’m really not very good in math. I’m better in history. I love the stories, but when a test comes along, I can’t remember the dates.
What I truly wanted to say was, “I like having so many friends.” But I would have to leave that for Kevin. Everyone likes him, me included. He lives just two houses away, so maybe that’s why he’s always friendly and nice to me. But then, on second thought, he’s that way with everyone. We elected him class president, and when Miss Blake said that it was time to vote again, no one wanted to change.
“Well, Angie?”
That was Miss Blake. It was my turn, and I still hadn’t decided on anything, so she went on to Linda and the others.
I had to think of something, something that I was really good at. I couldn’t even say that I was the fastest runner. Both Kevin and Linda could beat me at running. They knew it, and so did I.
While I was trying to think of something, I was also listening to what the others were saying. When it was Kevin’s turn, he didn’t say a word about all his friends. He just said, “I like the way I can catch high flies when I’m having a good day at baseball practice.”
There is one thing I’m good at: I notice things, and I’m honest enough to tell people what I notice. For instance, one morning Mary Lou came to school with her hair looking just awful. No one else seemed to notice, but I did. I asked her if her mother was away. She seemed surprised and wanted to know why I asked. “Because,” I said, “your hair is such a mess.”
I learned later that her mother had been away—to the hospital for a new baby—but Mary Lou didn’t tell me. She sort of stayed away from me the rest of the day. Most of the other girls did too. They just seemed to flock around Mary Lou. I guess they hadn’t noticed how weird she looked.
And when Wendy came to school with a tear in the back of her blouse, not one other person seemed to notice. But I did; I told her about it too.
“Are you ready, Angie?” Miss Blake had finished with everyone else and was back to me. I had to think of something quickly.
“Honest.” I said. “I suppose I’m about the honestest person in this whole class.”
There was a big silence, a real silent silence. I was a little surprised. Didn’t the class members agree with me?
I thought about it as I walked home by myself. I decided that I’d have to work even harder at being honest. I began the very next morning.
Miss Blake was wearing a dress that I disliked. Now, I can take most colors. But purple! I have this strong feeling against purple, particularly that purple. I had to be honest about it. As soon as school started, I spoke right up. “Miss Blake, I don’t think I can do my work very well today.”
“Why, Angie? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Yes … I mean, I was. But I hate that purple color of your dress, and it upsets me. I thought that I had better be honest and tell you.”
Well! The silence that followed that remark made yesterday’s silence sound like a traffic jam. For the next few moments I don’t think that anyone even breathed.
Miss Blake spoke first. “I am truly sorry, Angie. I shall try to remember.”
The next recess, when I tried to join the girls playing jump rope, they quit and went over to the volleyball net. When I moved over there, they all ran into the school building.
Then Kevin ran by, chasing a softball. He got it and threw it back to the pitcher. I wasn’t surprised to see him playing in the field, even though he is our best pitcher. He says that the other kids like to pitch too. That’s Kevin, always thinking about others.
“Hi, Angie,” he said.
I felt silly standing there all alone. “The others were all thirsty,” I explained. “They all went in early.”
He just glanced at me, then started back to his game.
“Well, I don’t care!” I shouted at him. “See those mountains in the canyon, those far, far back ones? My dad and I are riding our horses up there on Saturday. That’s my favorite place in all the world, and I don’t care what these girls do or say!”
“Honestly, Angie?” Kevin called back over his shoulder. Then he stopped and turned around. “You know, Angie, some people like purple. It’s my favorite color.”
I stood there thinking about what he had said and about what I had said to Miss Blake—and about how the other kids had looked at me. Right there on the playground, without any kind of mirror, I took one good long look at myself, and I didn’t like what I saw.
And to think that Kevin liked purple! Evidently Miss Blake did too. I looked again at the mountains to the east. The closer ones were different shades of blue, but those farther away, those up against the horizon—those in my favorite place in all the world—were a beautiful, lovely purple! And it was the same color as Miss Blake’s dress. …
I made up my mind. When the bell rang, I raised my hand and said, “Miss Blake?” My voice was a little shaky, but I made sure that it was loud enough for everyone in class to hear. “I’m sorry for what I said about your dress. It’s really very nice, and I’ve decided to learn to like purple.”
Once more there was silence in our classroom. Then Kevin started to clap. After a moment the other kids all smiled and joined in. So did Miss Blake.
After school Mary Lou, Wendy, and Kevin waited to walk home with me. I felt happier than I had for a long time. I decided that I would still be honest, but from now on I was going to be like Kevin, honestly kind.
When I reached the sidewalk in front of my own house, I took another good long look at myself, still without a mirror. I liked what I saw a little better.

I love the experience President Wilford Woodruff tells of the Prophet’s message to the elders who met in preparation for the 1834 Zion’s Camp march: “On Sunday night the Prophet called on all who held the Priesthood to gather into the little log school house they had there. It was a small house, perhaps 14 feet [4.2 meters] square. But it held the whole of the Priesthood of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who were then in the town of Kirtland, and who had gathered together to go off in Zion’s camp. That was the first time I ever saw Oliver Cowdery, or heard him speak; the first time I ever saw Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball, and the two Pratts, and Orson Hyde and many others. There were no Apostles in the Church then except Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery. When we got together the Prophet called upon the Elders of Israel with him to bear testimony of this work. Those that I have named spoke, and a good many that I have not named, bore their testimonies. When they got through the Prophet said, ‘Brethren I have been very much edified and instructed in your testimonies here tonight, but I want to say to you before the Lord, that you know no more concerning the destinies of this Church and kingdom than a babe upon its mother’s lap. You don’t comprehend it.’ I was rather surprised. He said ‘it is only a little handfull of Priesthood you see here tonight, but this Church will fill North and South America—it will fill the world’” (in Conference Report, April 1898, 57).

Many teens who live close to Nauvoo remember what it was like before the new Nauvoo Illinois Temple was built. Brianne Bokish of the Quincy Ward says, “I remember when the temple wasn’t there. There were stones marking where the corners and walls had been. My brother and I would run around, stepping on all the rocks around the whole thing. My parents took pictures of us standing in the very center where the font had been. It doesn’t seem like so long ago, but the temple is here today.”

It was an important occasion. The president-elect of the United States, Dwight D. Eisenhower, had assembled his cabinet members for their first meeting. He greeted his new advisers warmly, smiling broadly as he chatted and shook hands.
But when everyone was seated, his smile gave way to seriousness. He turned to his Secretary of Agriculture. The incoming administration had great need of divine inspiration, the president said. Because of that, he was asking Ezra Taft Benson to open the cabinet meeting with prayer.
Even though he was taken by surprise, Ezra Taft Benson was a man used to praying, both in public and private. He offered a beautiful, sincere prayer, and it became a tradition to begin all cabinet meetings with an appeal to the Lord.
That was in January 1953. In November 1985, the same man who prayed at that cabinet meeting took another giant step in a life filled with service to God and country. Following the death of President Spencer W. Kimball, the Lord called Ezra Taft Benson to be President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Photo by Eldon K. Linschoten
Throughout his life, President Benson has set an example in both public service and his private life. He brings to his latest calling a wealth of experience and an unquestioned reputation for integrity, love of family, and knowledge of the gospel.
Ezra Taft Benson was born in Whitney, Idaho, on August 4, 1899. He was the first of 11 children of George T. Benson, Jr. and Sarah Dunkley Benson. The birth was difficult. The doctor said he would try to save the mother, but he held little hope for the baby.
President Benson tells the story, “The faith of my father, the administrations of the priesthood, and the quick action of my two grandmothers, who placed me first in a pan of cold water and then in a pan of warm water alternately, brought forth a husky yell to the joy of all” (Ensign, Oct. 1974, pp. 22–23).
The new baby was named after his great-grandfather, the first Apostle selected by Brigham Young after the death of Joseph Smith. That Ezra T. Benson served in the Nauvoo Legion and came west with the first company of pioneers.
As he grew up on the farm, Ezra, or “T” as he was nicknamed, learned the value of work. At age four he could drive a team, and he was soon herding cattle, thinning beets, milking cows, and doing general farm work. When Ezra was 12, his father was called on a mission. The family sold half the farm and shared their two-room home with the family that operated part of the remaining acres. President Benson’s mother was left to care for seven children, and the eighth was born shortly after his father arrived in the mission field.
“Never did I hear a murmur from her lips,” President Benson recalls.
In this time of hardship, the family pitched in. Ezra was known as a “tease” at school, but he worked hard. He also found time to trap muskrats to help meet expenses, and to round up cattle in the mountains. At 16, he single-handedly thinned an entire acre of sugar beets in one day. He loved sports, especially basketball and baseball, and was a friend and teammate of Harold B. Lee, who later became the 11th President of the Church.
Young Ezra also learned lessons from his father, who, after his two-year mission, served in the bishopric and the stake presidency. “Remember,” his father said, “that whatever you do or wherever you are, you are never alone. Our Heavenly Father is always near. You can reach out and receive his aid through prayer.”
As a student at Utah State Agricultural College (now Utah State University), Ezra mustered the courage to ask Flora Amussen for a date. The youngest of the six children raised by her widowed mother, Flora was “the most popular girl in town,” a tennis star, actress, student-body vice-president, and a leader in many activities. Nevertheless, the “farm boy” continued what he described as an “inspirational and soul-satisfying courtship.”
But the romance was postponed by Elder Benson’s mission call to England. He labored in Newcastle, where he became a mission leader. He often dressed in the plain clothes of a workman while preaching to the unemployed on the streets. After two and a half years, he returned home and proposed to Flora. But she decided to serve a mission herself. When she returned from Hawaii, he had graduated from Brigham Young University. They were finally married in the Salt Lake Temple on September 10, 1926.
After further studies in Iowa and graduation with an M.S. in agricultural economics, they returned to the family farm. Ezra Benson was so helpful to other farmers that county commissioners drafted him to be the county agricultural agent.
In addition to his employment, he was an active Scoutmaster. He still loves to tell stories about how he shaved his head to fulfill a promise to his Scouts, about hiking through the mountains, and about winning singing contests. His dedication to Scouting would eventually earn him positions on the National Advisory Board and the Executive Board of the Boy Scouts of America. His service would earn him the Silver Beaver, the Silver Antelope, and the Silver Buffalo awards, the highest awards in Scouting.
His success in the county led to other positions with the University of Idaho Extension Service and a move to Boise. He helped organize the Idaho Cooperative Council and became its secretary in 1933. One of the campaigns for which he was largely responsible made Idaho potatoes famous throughout the land.
After holding many other Church callings, he became president of the Boise Stake in 1938.
In 1939, he was asked to serve as executive secretary of the National Council of Farmer Cooperatives, representing two and a half million farmers nationwide. He moved to the nation’s capital, where he served as the first president of the Washington D.C. Stake.
Over the next five years, he developed a national perspective on farm issues and won the confidence of government officials and business leaders. He was offered a position at triple the salary and decided to discuss the offer with his former mission president, President David O. McKay of the First Presidency.
While in Salt Lake, he was told that Church President Heber J. Grant wished to see him. President Benson recalls:
“President Grant took my right hand in both of his and looked into the depths of my very soul and said: ‘Brother Benson, with all my heart I congratulate you and pray God’s blessings to attend you; you have been chosen as an Apostle of the Church.’”
Although he could hardly believe it was true, he accepted the calling and put aside the high-salaried position he had originally come to discuss. He was sustained at the October conference and set apart on October 7, 1943.

In early December President Young spent two weeks with the somewhat discouraged Elders Kimball and Woodruff, who had been assigned to London. Since their arrival in August, the work had gone slowly, and just before Brigham arrived Wilford had written, “There is so much agoing in the city to draw the attention of the people that it almost requires a trump to be blown from heaven in order to awaken [them] to the subject of the fulness of the gospel.”32
President Young’s visit must have served its purpose well because within a week he and the others were preaching to the largest gatherings the missionaries had yet been able to attract in London. Several indicated a desire to be baptized, and an independent minister talked of joining and bringing his congregation with him. Brigham visited the College of Surgeons with a Dr. Copeland, who had been attending seriously to the apostles’ message, and the doctor was baptized the next month. Then the president of the Quorum returned to Manchester and began a flurry of activities, completions, and arrangements for the future that brought the great apostolic mission to a close.

While we were expecting our ninth child, an examination revealed that I had cancer. The doctors could not determine the source or extent without endangering the baby, and she wasn’t old enough to survive birth. But they did know the cancer was spreading. So we were asked to decide whether the doctors should operate despite the risk, or if they should wait until the baby had developed more fully.
To me there seemed to be no answer. I wanted to live and to rear our eight children. But I also felt protective of the child I was carrying. We struggled for several weeks, giving the baby more time to mature, prayerfully seeking to know the will of the Lord. Our answer came when, after much prayer and fasting, Dan said to me, “Barbara, it will be all right. I have scheduled surgery.”
Because of priesthood power, he could do more than make that difficult decision. He called our home teacher, a neighbor who had had his own struggle with cancer, and my brother. In the name of Jesus Christ, my husband, assisted by those men, blessed me and our baby that what was done would be best for both of us.
Dan again wrote me a letter the night before surgery: “These past days have been filled with more anxiety and soul searching for me than any time in my life. … As we have passed through swells of faith and depths of fear, I have experiences a purging I didn’t know I needed. The priesthood blessings you have received are from the Lord. Tonight as we sat in your hospital room, I was aware of your struggle between fear and faith. I experienced it myself for many hours after I returned home. Just now I have received, with burning assurance, the Lord’s seal upon the blessings you have received. … [The doctors], as instruments in the hands of our Father in Heaven, will do what is needed to perform His work.”
The surgery was successful. Our healthy daughter, now fifteen years old, was born seven weeks later.

One of the most important parts of a successful home teaching visit is preparing and sharing a lesson. Every other month Brandon Stewart gives the lesson. Brandon has learned how to prepare a lesson by watching his senior companion, his father. Thanks to his dad’s good example, giving the lesson is Brandon’s favorite part of home teaching.
To prepare his lesson, Brandon starts by reading the First Presidency Message in the Ensign. He picks the parts he thinks may help the family he will be teaching. He then adds his personal experiences and feelings about the topic and concludes his lesson just as his father does, by bearing his testimony.

My message centers on the importance in each of our lives of righteous friendships. In my youth, an inspired patriarch laid his hands on my head and by revelation opened to me an understanding of my potential—for who I really am—and gave a direction for my life, just like a patriarch has done for many of you. I was told that I would not lack for friends and associates, that their friendship would be a special blessing to me both temporally as well as spiritually. I was counseled to select for my closest friends those who were righteous and had a desire to keep the commandments of God.

That passage from my patriarchal blessing has been like a comfort blanket to me throughout my life. At times, especially while living away from home, those words have given me a peace and strength—my friends were standing by, although separated by many miles. And at such times I learned one of life’s most important lessons, that no matter how long I was away, no matter how great the distance, whenever my friends and I met again, it was as if nothing had changed. We picked up our lives where we left off, and it was as if time had stood still.

Another important relationship in a family is that between children themselves. Often an older brother or sister will come to the aid of a younger sibling in a show of love and concern. If there is any doubt about love as a divine inheritance, consider a brief Reader’s Digest story shared by Sister Sharon G. Larsen at the recent Young Women conference. The story is about

twin girls, Brielle and Kyrie, who were born prematurely. “They were placed in separate incubators to reduce the risk of infection. Kyrie, the larger sister at two pounds three ounces, quickly began gaining weight and calmly slept. But Brielle, who weighed only two pounds at birth, could not keep up with her.”

Sister Larsen said Brielle’s condition became critical as her oxygen intake plummeted and her heart rate soared. “Then the nurse remembered a procedure she had heard about. The parents consented, and the nurse slipped the squirming baby into the incubator with the bigger sister. No sooner had the door of the incubator closed than Brielle snuggled up to Kyrie and calmed right down. Within minutes Brielle’s blood-oxygen readings were the best they had been since she was born. As she dozed, Kyrie wrapped her tiny arm around her smaller sibling.” [“Protect Families from Anger, Strife,” Church News, 4 April 1998, p. 5]

One might argue that the relationship formed in the womb was the reason why Brielle snuggled up to her sister and why Kyrie wrapped her arm around her smaller twin. Even then, the bonding reflects a divine spark in both children that reaches back into the eternities.

It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small, and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in an old grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozen earth in front of her. This made a kind of grave and persistent noise in the still air that seemed meditative like the chirping of a solitary little bird. . . .
Now and then there as a quivering in the thicket.
Old Phoenix said, “Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits, coons, and wild animals! Keep out from under these old feet, little bobwhites. . . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don’t let none of those come running in my direction. I got a long way.”
The story continues, the adventures unfold, in most pleasing and picturesque language. She goes up hard hills, and her aged feet feel like they’re bound in chains. Down through the oaks, past the little bushes that her old eyes think to be green, but are instead thorny and brambled and worrisome as she catches her skirt that must not be torn. And then she climbs over barbed wire past big, dead trees that look like black men with one arm, standing in the field of purple stalks of the withered corn and cotton. And through pathless cornfields then shaking the dry husks to whirl around her skirts, past snake pits, bull pens, alligator ponds, and scarecrows dancing and frightening. And then she comes to a terrible place in the path that she’s following to her destination to town, loses her step, and tumbles over and down into the ditch and she can’t get back up.
After a time a white man comes along, a young man, a hunter, with his dog on a chain.
He sees her lying there and he says,
“Well, Granny, what are you doing there?”
She gives this marvelous line:
“Lying on my back like a June bug waiting to be turned over, mister,” she said, reaching up her hand.
He lifted her up, gave her a swing in the air, and set her down. “Anything broken, Granny?”
“No sir, them old dead weeds is springy enough,” said Phoenix when she had got her breath. “I thank you for your trouble.” . . .
“On your way home?”
“No sir, I going to town.”
“Why, that’s too far! That’s as far as I walk when I come out myself. . . . Now you go on home, Granny!”
“I bound to go to town, mister,” said Phoenix. “The time come around.”
When the man leaves, she finds a nickel on the ground that apparently fell out of his pocket when he stooped to pull her up. She takes the nickel, puts it in her pocket, and goes the rest of the way to town. Finally, arriving at her destination where she sees the stone building, she climbs the tower of the steps until her feet know where to stop. She goes in and is greeted by a nurse there, and the nurse asks her about a grandson who apparently had swallowed some lye some two or three years before.
Granny Phoenix has made that long, perilous journey that I’ve spared you many of the details of to get the medicine for that little boy. The nurse asks Granny if the boy is dead, and Phoenix replies:
“No, missy, he not dead, he just the same. Every little while his throat begin to close up again, and he not able to swallow. He not get his breath, he not able to help himself. So the time come around, and I go on another trip for the soothing medicine.” . . .
“My little grandson, he sit up there in the house all wrapped up, waiting by himself. We is the only two left in the world. He suffer and it don’t seem to put him back at all. He got a sweet look. He going to last. He wear a little patch quilt and he peep out holding his mouth open like a little bird.”
She adds this important line:
“I could tell him from all others in creation.”
“All right,” the nurse says, trying to silence her. She doesn’t want the story to turn into one of those old-people recitations. She gives her the medicine, marks down, “Charity,” and then says:
“It’s Christmas time, Grandma, could I give you a few pennies out of my purse?”
“Five pennies is a nickel,” said Phoenix stiffly.
“Here’s a nickel,” said the attendant.
Phoenix rose carefully and held out her hand. She received the nickel and then fished out the other nickel out of her pocket and laid it beside the new one. She stared at her palm closely, with her head on one side.
Then she gave a tap with her cane on the floor.
“This is what come to me to do. I going to the store and buy my child a windmill they sells made out of paper. He going to find it hard to believe there such a thing in the world. I’ll march myself back there where he waiting, holding it straight up in this hand.”
She lifted her free hand, and gave a little nod, turned around, and walked out of the doctor’s office. Then her slow step began on the stairs, going down.

Many years later, when I was grown up and had my own family, we heard the message of the gospel of Jesus Christ when the missionaries knocked on our door. There was something in these missionaries—a glow of trust, a glow of hope, a glow of security, and a glow of love—that looked in the beginning to us like a fairy tale.
Could it be true? Could it really be true that we are all children of a loving Heavenly Father and that through the Spirit of Jesus Christ I could come to an understanding of the feelings I had had at Christmastime in my childhood? Because this door opened, the understanding that led to our conversion and baptism helped us see that we could experience Christmas every day when we focus always on Him, listen to Him, and embrace Him with a loving, grateful heart. What joy came to my family when we opened our souls to the light of the gospel of Jesus Christ!

How can following the prophet help us? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles told a story about his father, who worked and lived in the home of President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918):
One night Elder Perry’s father came home very late and tried to open his bedroom door. The door would not open. He pushed and pushed, and it still would not open. He gave up and turned to sleep on a rug that was in the hall. As he turned, he bumped into a nearby, partially opened door—and woke up the prophet!
Although it was midnight, President Smith came over and showed Elder Perry’s father how to open the door by pulling instead of pushing, and how to get around in the dark: “Keep your arms in front, but hands together.”
Elder Perry teaches us what a prophet does to help us. He said, “Isn’t a prophet someone who teaches us to open doors we could not open ourselves—doors to greater light and truth? Isn’t a prophet like a pair of hands clasped together in front of the body of the Church, helping members navigate [find their way] through the dark [hallways] of the world?” (Ensign, Nov. 1994, 18–19.)

President Gordon B. Hinckley explained the reason in a talk delivered in general conference. He told about talking to a Protestant minister following a temple open house. The minister had asked why there were no crosses anywhere if we say we believe in Jesus Christ. President Hinckley answered, “‘I do not wish to give offense to any of my Christian brethren who use the cross on the steeples of their cathedrals and at the altars of their chapels, who wear it on their vestments, and imprint it on their books and other literature. But for us, the cross is the symbol of the dying Christ, while our message is a declaration of the living Christ.’
“He then asked, ‘If you do not use the cross, what is the symbol of your religion?’
“I replied that the lives of our people must become the only meaningful expression of our faith and, in fact, therefore, the symbol of our worship” (“The Symbol of Christ,” New Era, Apr. 1990, p. 4).

Therefore, brothers and sisters, we must press on and eventually become more like the Lord in the process. We all know those who have faced great trials in life and have endured faithfully. One inspiring example is from an early Saint of the 19th century, Warren M. Johnson. He was assigned by Church leaders to operate Lee’s Ferry, an important crossing over the Colorado River in the desert of northern Arizona. Brother Johnson endured great challenges yet remained faithful his entire life. Listen to Brother Johnson explain his family tragedy in a letter to President Wilford Woodruff:
“In May 1891 a family … came here [to Lee’s Ferry] from Richfield Utah, where they … spent the winter visiting friends. At Panguitch they buried a child, … without [cleaning] the wagon or themselves. … They came to our house, and remained overnight, mingling with my little children. …
“We knew nothing of the nature of the disease [diphtheria], but had faith in God, as we were here on a very hard mission, and had tried as hard as we knew how to obey the [commandments] … that our children would be spared. But alas, in four and a half days [the oldest boy died] in my arms. Two more were taken down with the disease and we fasted and prayed as much as we thought it wisdom as we had many duties to perform here. We fasted [for] twenty-four hours and once I fasted [for] forty hours, but to no avail, for both my little girls died also. About a week after their death my fifteen year old daughter Melinda was [also] stricken down and we did all we could for her but she [soon] followed the others. … Three of my dear girls and one boy [have] been taken from us, and the end is not yet. My oldest girl nineteen years old is now prostrate [from] the disease, and we are fasting and praying in her behalf today. … I would ask for your faith and prayers in our behalf however. What have we done that the Lord has left us, and what can we do to gain his favor again[?]”
A short time later, Brother Johnson wrote a local leader and friend, expressing his faith to press on:
“It is the hardest trial of my life, but I set out for salvation and am determined that … through the help of Heavenly Father that I [would] hold fast to the iron rod no matter what troubles [came] upon me. I have not slackened in the performance of my duties, and hope and trust that I shall have the faith and prayers of my brethren, that I can live so as to receive the blessings.”

Throughout the years, I have known countless individuals who have been particularly faithful and obedient. I have been blessed and inspired by them. May I share with you an account of two such individuals.
Walter Krause was a steadfast member of the Church who, with his family, lived in what became known as East Germany following the Second World War. Despite the hardships he faced because of the lack of freedom in that area of the world at the time, Brother Krause was a man who loved and served the Lord. He faithfully and conscientiously fulfilled each assignment given to him.
The other man, Johann Denndorfer, a native of Hungary, was converted to the Church in Germany and was baptized there in 1911 at the age of 17. Not too long afterward he returned to Hungary. Following the Second World War, he found himself virtually a prisoner in his native land, in the city of Debrecen. Freedom had also been taken from the people of Hungary.
Brother Walter Krause, who did not know Brother Denndorfer, received the assignment to be his home teacher and to visit him on a regular basis. Brother Krause called his home teaching companion and said to him, “We have received an assignment to visit Brother Johann Denndorfer. Would you be available to go with me this week to see him and give him a gospel message?” And then he added, “Brother Denndorfer lives in Hungary.”
His startled companion asked, “When will we leave?”
“Tomorrow,” came the reply from Brother Krause.
“When will we return home?” asked the companion.
Brother Krause responded, “Oh, in about a week—if we get back.”
Away the two home teaching companions went to visit Brother Denndorfer, traveling by train and bus from the northeastern area of Germany to Debrecen, Hungary—a substantial journey. Brother Denndorfer had not had home teachers since before the war. Now, when he saw these servants of the Lord, he was overwhelmed with gratitude that they had come. At first he declined to shake hands with them. Rather, he went to his bedroom and took from a small cabinet a box containing his tithing that he had saved for years. He presented the tithing to his home teachers and said, “Now I am current with the Lord. Now I feel worthy to shake the hands of servants of the Lord!” Brother Krause told me later that he had been touched beyond words to think that this faithful brother, who had no contact with the Church for many years, had obediently and consistently taken from his meager earnings 10 percent with which to pay his tithing. He had saved it not knowing when or if he might have the privilege of paying it.
Brother Walter Krause passed away nine years ago at the age of 94. He served faithfully and obediently throughout his life and was an inspiration to me and to all who knew him. When asked to fulfill assignments, he never questioned, he never murmured, and he never made excuses.

Preceding the comforting revelation to Joseph and Oliver that I have just cited, the Prophet endured a poignant, painful experience familiar to all of us that taught him to look to the Savior and not fear the opinions, pressures, and threats of men. I quote from the account in our Priesthood and Relief Society manual, Teachings of the Presidents of the Church: Joseph Smith:

On June 14, 1828, Martin Harris left Harmony, Pennsylvania, taking the first 116 manuscript pages translated from the gold plates to show to some of his family members in Palmyra, New York. The very next day, Joseph and Emma's first child was born, a son they named Alvin. The baby died that same day, and Emma's health declined until she was near death herself. The Prophet's mother later wrote: "For some time, [Emma] seemed to tremble upon the verge of the silent home of her infant. So uncertain seemed her fate for a season that in the space of two weeks her husband never slept one hour in undisturbed quiet. At the end of this time, his anxiety became so great about the manuscript that he determined, as his wife was now some better, that as soon as she had gained a little more strength he would make a trip to New York and see after the same."[17] In July, at Emma's suggestion, the Prophet left Emma in her mother's care and traveled by stagecoach to his parents' home in Manchester Township, New York. The Prophet's trip covered about 125 miles and took two or three days to complete. Distraught about the loss of his firstborn son, worried about his wife, and gravely concerned about the manuscript, Joseph neither ate nor slept during the entire trip. A fellow traveler, the only other passenger on the stagecoach, observed the Prophet's weakened state and insisted on accompanying him for the 20-mile walk from the stagecoach station to the Smith home. For the last four miles of the walk, recalled the Prophet's mother, "the stranger was under the necessity of leading Joseph by his arm, for nature was too much exhausted to support him any longer and he would fall asleep as he stood upon his feet."[18] Immediately upon reaching his parents' home, the Prophet sent for Martin Harris. Martin arrived at the Smith home in the early afternoon, downcast and forlorn. He did not have the manuscript, he said, and did not know where it was. Hearing this, Joseph exclaimed, "Oh! My God, my God. ... All is lost, is lost. What shall I do? I have sinned. It is I that tempted the wrath of God by asking him for that which I had no right to ask.... How shall I appear before the Lord? Of what rebuke am I not worthy from the angel of the Most High?" As the day wore on, the Prophet paced back and forth in his parents' home in great distress, "weeping and grieving." The next day he left to return to Harmony, where, he said, "I commenced humbling myself in mighty prayer before the Lord ... that if possible I might obtain mercy at his hands and be forgiven of all that I had done which was contrary to his will."[19] The Lord severely chastised the Prophet for fearing man more than God, but assured him he could be forgiven. "Thou art Joseph," the Lord said, "and thou wast chosen to do the work of the Lord, but because of transgression, if thou art not aware thou wilt fall. But remember, God is merciful; therefore, repent of that which thou hast done which is contrary to the commandment which I gave you, and thou art still chosen, and art again called to the work."[20] For a time, the Lord took the Urim and Thummim and the plates from Joseph. But these things were soon restored to him. "The angel was rejoiced when he gave me back the Urim and Thummim," the Prophet recalled, "and said that God was pleased with my faithfulness and humility, and loved me for my penitence and diligence in prayer, in the which I had performed my duty so well as to ... be able to enter upon the work of translation again."[21] As Joseph moved forward in the great work before him, he was now fortified by the sweet feelings of receiving the Lord's forgiveness and a renewed determination to do His will.[22]

Since the SBAA hosts its annual conference in a different city each year, it’s not likely that it will be held in Louisville again for a long time. Chances are, most of these participants and volunteers will never see each other again. With the activities winding down, the youth want to give their new friends one last memorable experience.

On the last day of the conference all the children and their parents gather in the hotel lobby for a special goodbye. The youth have prepared a song called “We Are the Hands of Heaven” to leave a final, spiritual message. The song has been carefully prepared and rehearsed, complete with two flute players and someone “singing” the words in American Sign Language. The piano begins and the voices start out strong. But then someone looks out into the crowd and sees the smiling face of a new friend, looking up intently from where she is seated in her tiny wheelchair. Tears begin to stream down a few cheeks, then a few more, and finally hardly anyone is left with dry eyes. The song, still beautiful, is sung more softly than in rehearsal. No one seems to mind.

When the song ends, one little girl rushes toward two of the volunteers and says, “You made my eyes water!” A little boy moves his crutches as fast as he can to catch up with two priests. “Here’s my address,” he says a little shyly. “Will you write me?”

When Spencer was about 14 years old, he went to stake conference. Brigham Young’s daughter Susa Gates spoke.
Sister Gates: How many of you have read the Bible through?
Spencer looked around. There were about 1,000 people in the hall, but only five or six hands went up.
Spencer: I read the funny papers all the time. I’ve read so many books, yet I’ve never read the Holy Bible. Why?
Spencer: I’m going to read the Bible from cover to cover, like Sister Gates said. I will, I will, I will.
When he got home, he found the family Bible, went up to the unfinished attic where he slept, lit a lamp, and opened to the first chapter of Genesis.
“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth …”
He read every night, even when he was confused by what he read.
Spencer: I don’t really understand this part, but I’m sure it will be worth it to keep reading. At least I’ll have some idea of what’s in the Bible when I’m finished.
A year later he closed the book, having read the whole thing. He had learned not only more about the Bible but also that he could set a goal and achieve it.

Kinsey watched through the car window as soggy brown hills zoomed past. Patches of snow clung to the ground. Tiny green leaves dotted the barren trees, not quite ready for spring.
“Why does the drive to Grandma’s house take so long?” Kinsey complained.
“Just a few more minutes,” Dad said.
“Why don’t you play a game?” Mom suggested.
“I already played the alphabet game and the license-plate game,” Kinsey said. “I colored pictures in my notebook and made paper animals. I’m bored!”
Kinsey pressed her nose against the car window. She glanced at her little brother, Taylor, asleep in his car seat. Even though she was bored, Kinsey was too excited to sleep. She hadn’t seen Grandma in so long. Grandma would have new books for her to read. They would gather at Aunt Michelle’s house for a family dinner with all the cousins. Most of all, Kinsey looked forward to a whole weekend of spending time with Grandma.
“Oh! It’s already started,” Mom said as she turned on the radio.
A clear, calm voice came from the speakers. Kinsey sat a little taller. She closed her eyes and tried to think. Where had she heard that voice before? Suddenly, she remembered.
“I know that voice!” she said with a smile. “It’s the prophet!”
Kinsey loved the prophet’s voice. It was strong and peaceful and kind. When the prophet spoke, it felt as if he were talking right to her. She listened closely to his words.
The prophet announced new temples being built in faraway parts of the world. Kinsey thought about all the people who would now be closer to a beautiful temple.
The prophet talked about missionaries. Kinsey remembered the letters they wrote in Primary for an older couple from their ward serving a mission in Slovenia.
The prophet talked about being kind to others. Kinsey thought about how she had been trying hard to be kind to her brother, even when he grabbed her toys or scribbled with her markers.
Finally, the prophet talked about families. Kinsey thought about how much she loved visiting her family at general conference time.
“We’re here!” Dad announced.
Kinsey looked out the window. How did they get to Grandma’s so fast?
“Let’s hurry inside so we don’t miss any more of conference,” Mom said.
Kinsey ran up the steps and rang the doorbell to Grandma’s house. The drive hadn’t been boring after all!

During the basketball season of 1984, our ward team competed with other ward teams of our stake. As the season progressed, Scott had a chance to play, and as long as I was there I never heard any of the other players complain or say anything indicating resentment. Quite frequently, in fact, special efforts were made to give Scott an opportunity to score points. No one suggested it. Trying to help him make a basket seemed so natural that nothing special was said about it. The unspoken acceptance of Scott by everyone is what makes it so remarkable.
The team advanced to the area tournament, and it was during the semi-final game that one of Scott’s gifts was given. As usual Scott had a chance to play, but as it turned out, the opposing team was winning by quite a wide margin. They were a good team and played well. During the game our team members often threw Scott the ball and urged him to shoot. I suppose it was because the players on the other team were intent on winning that one of them stole the ball from Scott and dribbled to his end of the court to make a basket. Instead of receiving the expected cheers, he was surprised to hear fans criticize him, even those from his own ward. Ridding himself of his confusion and embarrassment, he recognized his mistake and backed away, allowing our team to throw the ball to Scott, who was trying to make a basket before the end of the game.
Soon other players from the opposing team began to participate. So involved were they that no one noticed the scorekeeper had shut off the clock with three seconds remaining to allow Scott his opportunity. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the action on the floor. Scott would shoot, and someone from one of the teams (it didn’t matter which) would rebound and throw it to Scott. Finally a shot went in and everyone cheered, the clock was turned on, and the game ended. Players ran to congratulate Scott, and our losing team evidenced little sadness about their loss. Observers left the game with a feeling very different from those of winners or losers. Scott had enabled all to participate in a gift of kindness and warmth that uplifted all who saw it. Souls were fed that evening instead of just being entertained.
I received the report of that game from Jeff LeBaron who, as Scott’s neighbor, had given him a ride and saw to it that he participated. I enjoyed the story and suggested to my son Dan, the other assistant in the priests quorum, that he have it told in priesthood meeting the following Sunday. As he conducted the meeting, he congratulated Scott and told of the events of the game. A warm feeling was created in our quorum as some of the players told additional details. Scott was congratulated by many, and we went on to the lesson thinking no more about the matter instead of appreciating the unity we all felt.